Written by

Leanne Castro

Staff Writer @leannnecastro_

FSView Staff Writer Leanne Castro is currently in Brazil experiencing the World Cup firsthand. The following is her personal account of the experience.

Heat. Stifling heat. It hit me like a ton of sweaty bricks the instant I stepped off the plane in Manaus. Despite Brazil currently being in its “winter” season (a term I will use very loosely), there are no snow flurries or even temperatures below 90 degrees to be found in Manaus. These worse-than-Florida weather conditions (who knew that was even possible?) would be downright unbearable were it not for the reason behind their existence.

This landlocked city is the gateway to the Amazon region. It does not offer the forgiving coastal breeze of Natal—instead, it is surrounded by the Amazon River. The landscape is tropical, self-sufficient and entirely foreign to anyone who was not raised on a houseboat without electricity deep in the Rio Negro—this is reason enough to get over the offensive stench my buckets of sweat were causing and focus on my surroundings.

The heart of the Amazon Rainforest–the location of the treehouse I stayed in for the few days between the Ghana and Portugal games–is a van, bus and boat ride away from any connection to the outside world. The scenery on the boat ride along the Amazon River looks like a mix between Apocalypse Now and Beasts of the Southern Wild: impossibly dense greenery and still, dark water, with the occasional floating shed sprinkled in. The utter remoteness of the treetop eco-lodge is surprisingly peaceful.

Sure, this solitude meant no one would be able to hear me scream if I was attacked by one of the creatures inhabiting the abandoned tower of the hotel (not to mention the monkeys I could see from my window or the crocodile that took to lingering by the steps to my room). But it also meant I was able to experience the spectacular surrounding wilderness without the distraction of modern commodities like television, Wi-Fi or a cell signal. My days were devoted entirely to activities I will likely never again be able to experience: piranha fishing, getting caught in a storm in the Amazon Rainforest, hunting for crocodiles in the dead of the night, visiting local villages and reading by light of the bright pinks and oranges radiating from the setting sun. But it was the least adventurous of these activities that stuck with me the most.

Being able to see the stars should be far more commonplace than it is. After all, the night sky emerges at the same time every day, like clockwork. Life in a place like Tallahassee (which might as well be Times Square compared to the Amazon), however, is not exactly conducive to extensive stargazing. There is simply too much civilization. On my nighttime cruise along he Amazon River, it wasn’t just stars I could see–it was entire bands of the Milky Way. I craned my neck so far back I thought I might crush my spine. My fellow stargazers eagerly pointed out constellations like the Big Dipper and the Southern Cross. That night was a Van Gogh painting come to life. Not even the bravery (or, arguably, stupidity) of my tour guide, who dove into the Amazon River in pitch-black darkness in order to catch a crocodile with his bare hands, could tear my attention away from the sky.

Brazil felt like the literal center of the universe that night.

Come that Sunday, my stint as an unshowered nature woman was over. My team was calling. After briefly exploring the outdoor markets of Manaus, it was time to head to the U.S.A. vs. Portugal match, to be held in a beautiful, spaceship-like stadium. My fellow American supporters were emitting a will to win so electric it was almost tangible. We delighted in our role as underdog. The odds being stacked against us gave us all the more reason to hate our opponent. We did not keep this hate quiet.

Anytime Cristiano Ronaldo got the ball, he was met with overwhelming boos and chants of “OVERRATED!” (As every Nole knows, sometimes hating your rivals is even more fun than supporting your team.) There were cheers mixed in with those boos, of course. While the tie was not as sweet as what we assumed was already a victory, no American hearts were broken over this result that night in the stadium, watching it happen firsthand. We all left that stadium sweating enough—thanks equally to the heat and to the stress—to fill the entire Amazon River. The heat of the rainforest was left behind in Manaus, but the heat of our passion was certainly not.